Honestly, I don’t know to whom this letter is directed. God? Harvard? (I’m taking a deep, strengthening breath here) Will Hunting himself? My employer-provided therapist told me to do this, and the university committee says to do whatever she says.
For many years now, I have taken my kids on ski trips several times a year. They still protest, saying skiing is okay, but we don’t need to go every time I have weekend custody. They’ll appreciate it one day when they have kids of their own and relentlessly take them on ski trips.
The part they complain about most is how long it takes to actually reach the resort, because I need to stop at every fast-food drive-thru we pass, where I always order fries. Just fries. No burgers, no drinks, fries. And I always pay close attention to the person serving said fries because I know—I don’t think, I know—that eventually it will be Will Hunting and my prophecy will be fulfilled. I cannot be wrong about that. Because if I am wrong about that, I could be wrong about anything. Or everything. And then, am I even alive? Was I ever?
Look, I understand that the fries thing is difficult to endure. No one eats them. The bags pile up in the back seat, turning into cold, greasy, inedible rods as the stench of canola oil or sometimes beef tallow wafts around the RAV4 and then coats the upholstery. The kids say little aside from a lonesome request for salad and an occasional muttering of “It will never be him.” I fucking hate fries now. Haven’t been able to eat one since that one night in Cambridge. Stiff, greasy reminders of my worst moment.
Still, I hope the kids also come to appreciate what I’ve taught them about perseverance, whether that’s getting a graduate degree or reclaiming one’s dignity through the potential humiliation of working drive-thru for a wage below the poverty line. A troubling, persistent, intrusive thought that does plague me, actually: Would any business even hire Will to work the drive-thru? That’s a customer-facing job, and he’s such a mean, mean guy.
It’s been twenty-five years since that night in Cambridge. Since Will told me that in fifty years I’d realize I shouldn’t try to impress girls with knowledge of colonial agrarian economies and that I wasted $150,000. That was pretty heavy! But I figure I’ve got twenty-five more years before those realizations really hit me. I intend to enjoy them.
And I’m doing fine! I’m fine. Fine. Hey, I get to mold young minds from my faculty position at a school that may not be prestigious, but, it’s been pointed out, is no longer technically on the verge of financial collapse. It’s here that I teach the work of James Lemon and Marxian historian Pete Garrison. My students learn about Gordon Wood and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization, but then—bam!—I hit them with Vickers who says Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth.
I go over that year after year after year. Class after class. Including ones where that subject is not supposed to be covered. My lecture style on this material can best be described as “hollering.” But you know what? No one interrupts me. Unlike Will Hunting, they’re polite. Many of them are on their phones, probably texting their friends about how impressive I am.
And, okay, yes, I’ve also written complex math problems on the boards, WHICH I SOLVED. And, again, sure, yes, okay, fine, all this manic behavior was definitely why I was placed on mandatory leave and sent to counseling. Also, I completely freaked out when I learned that some students had created fake social media accounts devoted to memes about the tiny ponytail I have, despite being otherwise bald. That didn’t help my case, I know that now.
So I think this letter is enough. I think this will satisfy the committee.
Sincerely,
Clark
P.S. Did you know I had a name and it was Clark? Look it up. It’s Clark.
ADDENDUM
Okay. I just found out why Will Hunting was never in any of those drive-thrus. It turns out that Will Hunting is a professor in the graduate history department at Harvard. And he teaches a class called “Inept Misunderstandings of the Historiography of the American South”. And when you look at the course online, there are pictures of me at Harvard and me, this week, from a surveillance camera(?)(!), right next to each other.
I may require more sessions.
Also, I forgot to mention, I don’t like apples anymore either.
